


Speak To Us of Love

by igrab



Category: due South
Genre: Episode: s04e12-13 Call of the Wild, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 00:24:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3401660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igrab/pseuds/igrab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What else does he say?"</p><p>"Hmm?" Fraser looked up, apparently having gotten as lost in thought as Ray.</p><p>"That guy. The prophet guy, that you were just talkin' about. What else does he say?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speak To Us of Love

**Author's Note:**

> this is not what i intended my first fic in this fandom to be, but there you have it. WARNING: MEN TALKING ABOUT THEIR FEELINGS THROUGH POETRY. khalil gibran, to be precise. 
> 
> in fact, this is mostly about how the prophet is made of feelings and fraser reads too much.

The dogs howled; Fraser and Thatcher sprang back from one another like they'd been burned. And who knows, maybe they had been - not like Ray was watching or anything. Not like he cared. Not his business. Not.

But _goddamnit_ , he'd finally gotten himself to actually _talk_ about it, and _now_ she's gotta interrupt them? Rude, is what that is. All kinds of rude.

Fraser dropped down beside him again. His face looked flushed; Ray stubbornly chose to believe it was because of the fire. They started talking at the same time.

"So you were saying - "

"What was that about, anyway - "

They both cut themselves off and stared into the fire, the trees, anywhere but at each other. Ray was still trying to marshal his forces when Fraser answered the question, his voice a low and intimate murmur.

"Inspector Thatcher had, I believe, been under the assumption that - well, that we were a team, and that, should she transfer out of Chicago, I would undoubtedly follow her."

Jeez. Get in line, lady, Ray thought, but some small grace kept him from saying it out loud. "And?"

"And, well, her brief time in the Yukon has already been enough to confirm that she would never be happy here, and that I - "

It was like pulling teeth, for chrissakes. Ray waited as patiently as he could (a whole three seconds) before he had to urge Fraser to continue. "You?"

"I belong here." He sucked in a deep breath, let it out slowly. "So, to answer your question, Ray - no, I don't believe I'll be partnering with Ray Vecchio when this is over. If my actions here are enough to redeem me, I'd - that is to say, this is my home. I've always intended to return here."

So. That was that, then. Ray hunched over, pulling his coat around him more tightly.

"But Inspector Thatcher interrupted you, didn't she? And I... had the feeling that what you were saying was, well. Somewhat important."

Fraser's eyes in the firelight looked almost comically blue, bright and shockingly intense. I'm gonna miss that, Ray thought, and even his mental voice sounded slightly hysterical. Nobody looks at me like that. Nobody's ever looked at me like that. Christ, I'm gonna miss him. I'm gonna. I don't. 

"I don't know what I'm gonna do without you," Ray found himself muttering out loud, and he must look like a total idiot, eyes all big and stupid-wide and mouth open like a fish, but he couldn't help it. He was - this was _it_ , suddenly, and he'd thought there were times in his life that were _it_ \- Stella, Post-Stella - but that wasn't, that was just love. He'd thought it was everything - but what the fuck did he know? He still had a _job_ without Stella. He still had a life, a personhood, even if he'd tried to pack it away to be what she wanted, make her stay - it wasn't like this. All those bits of him he'd got back? They were all woven into that red serge, folded into the shiny black threads of Fraser's hair, in the cracks of his smile and his hands, in the thick white fur of Ray's favorite wolf. And Fraser was still watching him.

"It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands," he murmured.

Ray blinked. "The hell is that?"

"Khalil Gibran. The Prophet. The narrator is preparing to leave from a city he has lived in for twelve years, on a ship bound for his homeland. Even though his time there was fraught with difficulty, he still experiences a powerful sensation of loss, leaving it behind. And despite this, his home calls to him." Fraser's eyes fell to watch the flickering play of the firelight. "'For to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and crystallize and be bound in a mould.'"

Ray got it, all of a sudden.

Because, see, at first he was thinking about himself - about how he couldn't just take off the coat of this partnership and move on, how it would be like ripping away his flesh, paring him down to the bones. But then - but then.

_To stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and crystallize and be bound in a mould._

What did Chicago have waiting for him? A one-bedroom apartment. A turtle. A desk that belonged to someone else, a wife that didn't want him, all that was left there was loose ends, tied to the shape of the guy he used to be. The guy he wasn't any longer, because he'd found something - some _one_ \- worth finding himself for.

He thought about what he had out here versus what he left back there, and there wasn't even a question. He was surrounded by snow and ice, and yet, he felt more free and alive than Chicago had ever felt to him.

"What else does he say?"

"Hmm?" Fraser looked up, apparently having gotten as lost in thought as Ray.

"That guy. The prophet guy, that you were just talkin' about. What else does he say?"

Usually, on the rare occasion that Ray actually wanted to listen to Fraser's ridiculous stories - okay, mostly he just wanted to listen to his voice, and some part of Fraser must get that, because usually he got this sort of fond but sarcastic look on his face, like he was saying, _okay, Ray, I'll humor you_. But this time, it was a whole other kettle of fish - Fraser just _smiled_ , and the light in his eyes was so goddamn warm that Ray felt, for a second, that he'd never be cold again.

"And the priests and the priestesses said unto him: Let not the waves of the sea separate us now, and the years you have spent in our midst become a memory. You have walked among us a spirit, and your shadow has been a light upon our faces. Much have we loved you. But speechless was our love, and with veils has it been veiled. Yet now it cries aloud unto you, and would stand revealed before you. And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation."

Ray felt his throat close, his eyes tickling with a warm wetness. "Fraser," he managed to get out, strangled and kind of hoarse. "Are you tryin' to say..."

Fraser's eyes dropped once again. "Then said Almitra, Speak to us of love."

Holy shit. Holy _shit_.

Ray wanted to say something - anything, anything - but before he could even wrap his head around it, Fraser pressed on, pushing the words out like he was terrified, like if he didn't say this now, he never would.

"And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said:   
When love beckons to you follow him, though his ways are hard and steep. And when his wings enfold you yield to him, though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. And when he speaks to you believe in him, though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

"For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, so shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth. Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself. He threshes you to make you naked. He sifts you to free you from your husks. He grinds you to whiteness. He kneads you until you are pliant; and then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast."

Ray stared, rapt, unable to look away from the bow-curve of Fraser's mouth as he spoke. He had never heard poetry like this. This, he thought, _this_ is poetry - like boxing, like dancing, a truth so bare and bright that it almost hurt to listen to. And this was... this was Fraser, talking. Unleashing words, someone else's words but did that matter? No it did not. Ray knew better than anyone that sometimes, when it was hard to find your own, saying something someone else said made it feel like you weren't so alone.

"And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course. Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself. But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires: To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To know the pain of too much tenderness. To be wounded by your own understanding of love; and to bleed willingly and joyfully. To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving; to rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy; to return home at eventide with gratitude; and then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips."

Once upon a time, Benton Fraser had fallen in love.

Ray knew the facts, he'd read the case files, and more importantly he'd read what wasn't there. Fraser had been willing to give up everything - for a known fugitive, even - and it was only taking a bullet from friendly fire that had stopped him. An accidental bullet. (Ray had almost seethed when he'd read that, unable to help thinking, over and over: _I wouldn't have missed._ ) Once upon a time, Fraser had been cut to the core of him, wounded by betrayal. As Ray had been, the hurt as keenly strong today as it was when he signed the divorce papers. For a long time, everyone seemed to be telling him he had to get over it - and he'd always thought, okay, he'd just, Fraser seemed so, _okay_. Like he _had_ moved on, and it had torn Ray up something fierce inside, because here he was, falling again, and he still felt the jagged edges in the hole of his heart where Stella used to take up so much space.

But now.

 _He gets it_ , Ray realized, and the rush of warmth was almost a palpable, physical thing, shooting down to his fingers and toes. Fraser hadn't moved on - he'd accepted the pain of loss as part of the price of loving. He didn't want to go back - Ray didn't either, not anymore. He and Stella - it hurt to think it, but they were better off apart. But that didn't mean that he wasn't still bleeding.

And Fraser. Ray looked up, saw that Fraser was watching him again, his eyes liquid and quiet, settled. He was looking at him like he always did, and Ray saw with a small shock of recognition that he'd been loving him all along, since day one, and had it hurt him? Yeah, of course. But he'd just let it. Let himself, well. Know the pain of too much tenderness.

"I can't," and Ray had found his voice, yes, but he still didn't have a clue what was going to come out of his mouth. Whatever it was, it was going to be the truth - he had no more lies left, they'd all fallen away, stripped bare by the biting, invincible cold of the place Fraser called home.

"I can't just sit here and let you walk away," he said, his voice scratchy and half-desperate. "That's not me, Frase. That thing, with the bleeding willingly and joyfully, I can't do that. I mean, I could - I used to, because it was worth it, but that's not what that means. Not to me. It - "

He cut himself off, rubbed a hand over his face and tried to sort it the fuck out. He was braced, automatically, to be reprimanded, to be told to hurry up, to be told what he meant to say. 

But no. Fraser waited, patient and sure. And Ray felt the final puzzle piece click into place, and the picture on the box said - _Benton Fraser is not Stella Kowalski_. It said, _You are right where you're supposed to be._

He took a deep breath. Let it out slow, until he could meet Fraser's eyes.

"I mean that if you mean it - if you want to do this, and I don't think it's Chicago you're tearing off with your bare hands, if you get my drift - Frase, you gotta know I got nothing left back there. You want to stay here, I'm staying. I'll go anywhere with you. 'When love beckons you, follow him', right? So I'm following you. Okay? Are we on the same page, here?"

The more he spoke, the more something opened up in Fraser's eyes; the more a smile spread over his face, and if he thought the guy was happy when they first landed in a field of endless snow, it was nothing, _nothing_ , to the way he looked right then. "I do believe so, yes, Ray."

God, he sounded - he sounded like every syllable was a whole paragraph, and every word in it was love.

"Because, we both gotta be home. Home's important, and you're absolutely goddamn right - you belong here." He swallowed. "And I belong with you."

"Yes, Ray." There was a crinkle in his eye, that slight edge of teasing that Ray was so in love with he'd have to write a ten-part novel to put it into words. "And I with you."

They sat side by side in a warm, electric silence for a long minute, watching the dogs tussle in the snow, savoring the sudden awareness that all this talking-about-stuff had given them. Slowly - slow enough that Fraser had room for second thoughts, if he felt like breaking Ray's heart into like a million pieces all of a sudden - slowly Ray tilted, until his head was on Fraser's shoulder, and without missing a beat, as perfectly and naturally as if it were something they did every day, Fraser's arm came up around him and hugged him in close.

He was warm, he was warm all the way through. Head, hands, and most importantly, heart.

"Do you think he was lonely?" Ray asked, abruptly, but he figured by now Fraser had to be used to it - and, indeed, he took the question in stride.

"The Prophet?" Not waiting for an answer, for that wasn't really a question, Fraser hummed. His head moved, face turned and Ray felt a warm, sweet pressure in his hair. _He kissed me_ , he thought, the warmth inside him flaring and shining like a sun. "I think so, yes. It was likely he would have accepted it, called as he was to a higher purpose, but. A bearable loneliness is still loneliness."

Ray turned, wriggling a little until he could push his face into the warm, soft skin of Fraser's neck, just over the collar of his parka. "Personally, I think that sucks."

Fraser let out a startled laugh, and oh man, did _that_ make Ray feel all lit up on the inside even more, just brilliant with it, loved and beautiful. Because it wasn't a huge deductive leap to figure out that Fraser felt a kinship with this guy, who knew all about love but still had to leave everything, every _one_ , for home. That the 'bearable loneliness' was Fraser's, and that he'd been bearing it so long that he almost didn't know how to put it down.

"It does, Ray. It... sucks." And there were lips in his hair again, and Ray rubbed his nose along the line of Fraser's throat, felt rather than heard the soft, contented sigh it provoked.

"So no more of that. Okay? That's not buddies."

He felt a smile in his hair. "Okay, Ray."

"It's not love, either. Buddies is love and love is buddies. Okay?"

A quiet, huffing chuckle. "Okay, Ray."

"That prophet guy say anything else interesting?"

"Oh, a great many things, Ray." Lips again, and when Ray sighed, Fraser's arms held him just a little bit closer. "But most importantly, he said, _of what can I speak save of that which is even now moving your souls?_ "

And _that_ , Ray thought, was the God's honest truth.


End file.
